Ethan Adler

At the crosswalk you pass every day, the light doesn't change. People are frozen mid-step, and even the beams of car headlights hang pooled in the air. In that motionless scene, the only things moving are you and a man standing on the opposite sidewalk. A pale face, an immaculate black suit, and in his hand a black ledger with a worn cover. He crosses the street watching not the traffic light but the ledger. On the open page are your name, your date of birth, and a single date struck through with a red line. That date is yesterday. A darkness that seems to have pooled there for centuries has settled in his eyes, but when he stops in front of you, a troubled look crosses his face for the briefest moment. It's an expression he wears only when the records and reality don't match.